


The Outlaw Torn

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode 05-08, Episode Related, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Spoilers, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:20:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3823474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a sickness. He’s clear on that. Nothing good for you ever burned like this, like Wild Turkey or Camel nonfilters or standing too close to a dying Wendigo. Forget about the part where the thing he burns for is, y’know, his baby brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Outlaw Torn

**Author's Note:**

> Bookends for Episode 05-08. One serious spoiler. (Is it silly to spoiler alert an ep that aired five years ago?)

It’s a sickness. He’s clear on that. Nothing good for you ever burned like this, like Wild Turkey or Camel nonfilters or standing too close to a dying Wendigo. Forget about the part where the thing he burns for is, y’know, his baby brother.

Who ain’t a baby anymore and that’s sorta the problem, right? ’Cause little man Sammy – all gangly arms and knobby knees – might’ve made him wanna run into burning buildings (been there) or wade through Hell (done that) or let the world fuckin’ explode (kinda, almost). But the kid never made his goddamn dick chub up. He's not a psycho. Well. Not that kind of a psycho anyway.

But right now, Sam’s taking too damn long in the shower, even accounting for his stupid hair. Beating off, sure as a ghoul’s got funky breath, and he’s just the kind of psycho that wants to stick his ear to the door and listen. Try to get a clue as to what turns his brother’s crank.

It’s all Chuck’s fault. Well, Chuck and his whackadoo fangirls.

“They do know we’re brothers, right?”

“Doesn’t seem to matter.”

“That’s just sick,” he’d said, but he didn’t know the half of it.

If he coulda seen what’d come of it, he’da killed that line of thought right there. Strangled the son of a bitch like Luca fuckin’ Brasi. But it bugged him, so he poked at it.

The fangirls (not to mention those real estate people and that kid in Wisconsin and a dozen random motel clerks from Austin to Boston) had to be getting it from somewhere. And hey, he’ll admit, Chuck’s been writing him and Sam pretty accurately. At least, it seems that way from what he’s read.

(His fucking head hurts every time he thinks about that laundromat.)

The bathroom doorknob clicks and Sam steps out in a cloud of steam. An overwashed and undersized motel towel dangles from his brother’s hips and leaves precisely zero to his imagination, which, seriously? Does not need the fucking help.

Damn that demon blood anyway. For all it fucked his brother up it sure as hell did a number on Sam’s body. Was bad enough when he snuck into Sam’s place in Palo Alto and found the scrawny kid who’d stormed off four years earlier filled out into a man. That solid weight under, then over him, then that willow whip of a girl who could never be to Sam what he was.

And that’s the whole thing, isn’t it? He wants to be Sam’s, the way Sam is his, the way Sam’s _been_ his, ever since Dad shoved a squirming bundle in his arms and said “Take your brother outside and don’t look back.” Dad might as well have stopped at “Take your brother” ‘cause that’s what he’d done. He took Sam for his own that night and every night after ‘cause protecting Sam – from the monsters, from the truth, hell half the time from Dad himself, made him feel strong. Needed. Whole.

Gah. He’s not even into dudes, he tells himself for the millionth time. This is goddamn ridiculous. And okay, so maybe it’s not _all_ Chuck’s fault. He’s probably always felt too much, clung too hard, tied up his whole damned identity into _takecareofSammy_. But for real though, there’s just no call to get his dick involved. Sam moves like a cat across the room and his dick twitches its disagreement. Fuckin’ sick.

The soft belly and protruding ribs (which he’d taped up himself when Sam was seventeen, when a straightforward haunting turned out to be a freakin’ _family_ of pissed-off spirits) have filled out into hard lines and thick muscles. Smooth pale skin now scarred and bronzed. And that tattoo, dark over his brother’s heart to match his own. He’d told himself it was purely functional at the time.

But now…?

To say nothing of the deep-cut vee along his brother’s hips, pointing like a neon sign toward the place he resolutely avoids with his eyes. He doesn’t picture what’s (barely) hiding there, doesn’t imagine its shape, its smell, its taste. He doesn’t clench his fists to stop himself from reaching out, doesn’t grit his teeth to dam the river of filth pouring out of his brain.

He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t breathe when Sam bends forward to dig through a duffle, towel clinging obscenely. Somehow it makes Sam more naked than naked, everything covered but nothing hidden and then (oh, come on) the towel slips loose. His brother catches it easily – modesty, such as it is, intact. Wad of clothes in the crook of one elbow Sam retreats back toward the bathroom.

He lets out a hard exhale, too hard, ‘cause Sam pauses, turns halfway to face him with the damnedest expression.

“Charlie horse,” he grits out lamely, hoping Sam will take his tight shoulders and ragged voice for pain. He reaches down and squeezes his calf in an effort to sell it.

Sam chuckles. “Don’t be a baby.” Drops that armload of clothes on the bed and says “I’ll rub it out for you – “ 

His head starts to swim.

“ – why don’t you get out of those jeans and I'll – “

Whatever else Sam says gets lost behind the rush of blood suddenly pounding in his ears. Which is surprising, that one functioning corner of his brain supplies unhelpfully, since most of his blood has fled elsewhere, judging by the sudden pressure in his pants.

“Nah, I got it,” he says. Almost calmly, wonder of wonders. “Just gonna go walk it off.”  


“Suit yourself,” Sam shrugs, and he bolts for the door.

**

He drives, Metallica’s S&M concert blasting out of the speakers, headed east for lack of a better direction. His brother has the laptop out, reading through the articles Sam downloaded all through breakfast.

Sam leans forward, turns the music down. “How ’bout this? Wellington, Ohio. Guy gets his head ripped off, locals say bear attack.”

“And I’m guessing they don’t have a lot of killer bears in Buckeye country?”

“Ahh, no.”

“Works for me.” He cranks the music and guns the motor. From the corner of his eyes, he watches Sam shut down the laptop and contort over the seat back to put it away. There’s a strip of white elastic and tan skin briefly visible where Sammy’s shirt rides up. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen a billion times but it makes his mouth go dry.

They put a hundred miles or so under the tires before his brother reaches for the stereo again. “So listen, man. This morning.”

He fights down the urge to slam his face into the wheel. Or Sam’s into the dashboard. Kid’s so damn hardheaded it’d probably just crack the plastic anyway. His brother keeps his mouth shut, stares at him with those dark defiant we-need-to-talk-about-this eyes.

“I had a cramp, dude.”

And what he’d almost call an evil glint – except, gotta watch that kinda shit with Sam, all things considered – flashes in his brother’s eyes. 

“Oh yeah?” Sam presses. “That why you quit limping the minute you were out the door?”

“So, what, spying on me now, Sammy?”

“No.” His brother crosses his arms and settles back against the seat, smug as hell. “But you don’t deny it.”

“Sam…”

He keeps his eyes on the road but he can feel his brother’s. Staring. Sizing him up like a fifty-dollar steak and Sam’s deciding where to stick the knife in first.

“Something’s up with you, man.”

“You think so?” He doesn’t mean to go from zero to arch-pissed in point oh two seconds, but dammit Sam has _got_ to leave this alone. “I mean, what could possibly be up with me? I dunno, Michael? Lucifer? Horsemen? Bobby? Oh and my heart just almost gave out on me, _again_ , so how ’bout you stow the Dr. Phil act?”

“Sure, Dean,” Sam sighs, patient and longsuffering. “I just want you to know that, whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Aaannd there it is. That sad kicked puppy expression that breaks open witnesses like –

“And knock it off with the eyes, willya? Your Lasso of Truth ain’t gonna work on me, Wonder Woman.” Heh.

“Guess that makes you Steve Trevor,” Sam mutters, which, what?

His head jerks in confusion but Sam lets it go, sinks down in the seat, head propped against the window. He cranks the radio again, not quite so loud as before, and drums his fingers on the wheel along with the rhythm.

**

Gabriel. The Trickster is Gabriel. He did _not_ see that coming. Not least because, he admits, he always kinda liked the guy, and angels as a general rule are… not all that likeable.

Still. That dick turned his car into KITT. Which is fucking insulting. The General Lee woulda kicked KITT’s ass. And his baby would smoke ‘em both, hands down, no contest. He doesn’t dwell on the part where Sam was also KITT. And he was inside Sam. Rooted around in Sam’s trunk. ‘Cause that line of thought reaches whole new levels of fuckedupedness.

He’s fucked up enough already.

“You think he actually gave me herpes?” Sam’s asking, legs sprawled, gas station bag full of ice shoved up between them. “Y’know, like, for authenticity?”

Oh, Lord.

He opens his mouth. Once. Twice. He wants to make a crack about monsters giving Sam VD all of a sudden, but that kinda talk drifts too close to bitch-who-shall-not-be-named territory.

He sighs. “I dunno, man. Have Cas check you out. Or go to a fucking clinic like a normal person. Don’t ask me.” ‘Cause the last thing he needs is another reason to think about his brother’s junk.

When Cas pronounces Sam disease-free, he’s relieved in a disturbingly non-fraternal sort of way. 

This has to stop. He needs to get laid. By a girl. A short, blonde, round-assed, big-tittied, girl. 

Except that night, when he’s out of the shower and rinsing the toothpaste out of his mouth and thinking about which of his shirts is probably clean enough to go trolling for chicks in, Sam appears behind him, huge in the mirror. Dressed for bed, old t-shirt frayed at the neck, boxers. Sam stands so close he can feel the warmth radiating off his brother’s body.

“Dean.”

He meets the reflection of Sam’s eyes, just a shade distorted in the cheap glass. And there’s a pleading there, a… hunger? No.

“Sam?” His voice sounds wary, suspicious in his own ears.

“Don’t go.”

He sees Sam’s hand move toward him, tentative, like reaching to comfort a spooked animal. Feels his heart rate pick up, his breathing quicken. Fuck, he _is_ a spooked animal.

His brother’s long fingers find the skin of his back, slide up, until they curl around over his shoulder against his neck. Sam’s thumb strokes a feather-light column up and down the top of his spine. He sucks in a sharp, involuntary breath.

Then his face closes up and he stiffens, teeth clenched and lips pressed and eyes squeezed tight. He sidesteps, ducks, escapes.

Sam’s just needy because of the Trickster. That smarmy fuck and so-called lessons have his brother all twisted up over those Tuesdays. He gets it. He does. Holding Sam in Cold Oak and watching the lights go out? Fuck. And Sam had to do it, what, a hundred times? More? He’d be twisted up too.

He goes for casual. “Sure, man. I’ll stay. Wanna see if there’s a game on?” He misses by a mile.

“No.” 

And Sam’s advancing on him. Backing him toward the wall next to the vanity. He bumps his head on the rod where they’ve hung up their Fed suits. Into the closet, he thinks hysterically.

“Sam, what the fuck?” he demands, willing himself to anger.

But his brother’s hands, just there all of a sudden, melt it away. He feels… He feels.

Thumbs, rasping through the hint of stubble dusting his cheeks. Palms, pressing into the tender skin below his jaw. Fingers, stroking up and down the back of his neck.

And Sam’s mouth, oh God, Sam’s mouth. “Say you don’t want this,” his brother breathes. “Tell me to stop.”

They’re pressed together, forehead to forehead, nose to nose. His shoulders tense. His elbows bend. His hands come up. And he can’t… He won’t… He doesn’t know when he grips Sam’s middle if he’s gonna push or pull.

He wants…

But if…

He feels his fingers curl into the fabric of Sam’s ratty tee. Feels his chin tilt up.

“Sammy,” he exhales against his brother’s lips.

It’s still a bad idea, not a bit better now than an hour, a month, a year ago. He just can’t find a fuck to give. They’ve lost so much and asked so little and Sam, if Sam (is it possible?) _wants_ this? From him, for him, _with_ him…?

He takes a step, slots his hips against his brother’s (his baby brother oh God this is so fucked up) and two thin layers of cheap boxer cotton are no match for the heat, the spark.

And Sam? Growls. Attacks his mouth like a starving man and he’s the last meal on earth. It’s almost all he can do to hold on, pleasure bursting behind his eyes and he just lets Sam.

“Bed,” he pants at last. “Now.” Because his knees are gonna buckle and his brother’ll never let him hear the end of _that_.

He feels Sam’s hands behind his thighs and holy shit he’s off his feet. Sam spins them both and he’s got no choice but to hang on, arms and legs around his brother, clinging like a fucking monkey (not a ninety-pound girl, nuh-uh). And Sam lowers him onto the nearest bed and winds up kneeling between his legs. Looking up at him. And that face damn near breaks him apart.

His only move here is to kiss Sam some more. Get the heat of those eyes off of him. He takes two fistfuls of that ludicrous hair and gives up his best, deep and dirty. Mmm, and Sammy’s into it, rumbling hot and hungry and sucking his tongue and putting those meathooks fuckin’ everywhere. Sliding and squeezing up and down his thighs, clutching and clawing his back. Bruising. Scratching. Marking him up.

Kinky fucker. Not that he’s bitching.

It’s not long, but too long, and not long enough, before his brother’s roaming hands find their way inside his waistband, worming up under his ass cheeks and teasing between. Sam’s pushing now, driving him back to lie flat on the bed and smooth as good whiskey his boxers are gone. And there’s Sam, standing over him, stripping.

And this face? Well. He’s used to this look from the chicks he’s banged. Greedy. Leering. He could see Sammy like this all day.

Except…

(And where’d that sound of screeching tires come from?)

“Sammy. You sure about this?” He sounds ragged. Wrecked. If Sam backs out now... 

His brother laughs. Fucking _laughs_. And drapes that devastating body over him, takes a hold of his face again.

“My God you’re an idiot.”

“Well gee, Sammy, if you’re gonna sweet talk me like that…”

Sam grins like breaking dawn, full on back teeth and dimples and “I’m sure, Dean.” A little hip roll follows and okay, yeah, so that hard-on feels pretty convincing. “Been onto you for months. Flirting, hinting, joking,” a pause, Sam pulls a mug, “the Dr. Phil act.”

Say what? How did he miss this?

“Thought you were gonna pass out from the thing with the towel.” And Sam’s got that smug look again, which he promptly resolves to kiss off his brother’s face.

Well. The kissing leads to groping, and the groping leads to grinding, and Sam’s got one big hand wrapped around both their dicks and it’s just –

He’s still pinned, and Sam’s got a height and weight advantage on him now (which, for real, should be the _least_ of what he finds sick and wrong about this situation. It is not.) But he’s got surprise going for him, and leverage where his feet are still on the floor so he flips them. Rolls Sam over and he smiles a filthy promise down at his brother’s startled face.

“Gonna blow you, Sammy.” He licks his lips and cocks an eyebrow. “Gonna make you come screamin’ my name.”

“Jesus, Dean.” Sam sounds half choked. “The fuckin’ mouth on you.”

He grins, another eyebrow twitch and he starts a slow slide down his brother’s chest. Fingers and lips and tongue and bare hints of teeth and he pauses here and there. A wet openmouthed kiss to Sam’s tattoo, like he’s trying to swallow it up. One nipple, the other, and when he sucks down hard Sam gasps, rocks up his hips and he can’t quit grinning. Might never quit.

Laps at the grooves of Sam’s abs, draws slippery circles all around his brother’s navel. Sam’s dick bobs and jerks against his throat and Sam pants. He licks his way across sharp hipbones, slides down further, nips at Sam’s inner thighs, sucks and kisses all the way down to one knee, then the other.

Sam’s ticklish behind his knees. And the voice in his head that damns him for how he knows that can shut, the fuck, up, because this? Is way too good. He teases his brother, squeezing fingers, flicking tongue and Sam’s cussing him.

“Shit for fuck’s sake will you just get on with it?” Sam’s stomach quakes with involuntary laughter.

No. No he goddamn well will not ‘cause if this is it, his only chance, he’s gonna make sure he wakes up tomorrow with spank material for decades.

“You didn’t ask me very nicely, Sammy,” he purrs, nuzzling now at his brother’s balls.

“Go fuck yourself,” Sam hisses.

“Well I guess I could.” He rises up to catch his brother’s eyes with a teasing smirk. “But that ain’t gonna be near as much fun for you now is it?” To prove his point, he licks a long slow stripe up the underside of Sam’s dick, trailing wet from root to crown.

Sam flat-out whines and it makes him shiver. He just… He has to pause for a second, let his brain soak his brother in. Long fingers fisted in long hair, eyes shut, mouth open. Chest rising and falling on quick-shallow breaths. Sweat and spit and a hint of a blush. Thigh muscles, thick and shuddering under his palms.

No more stalling. He knees up onto the bed for a better angle and swallows Sam’s cock as deep as he can. Which, it annoys him to realize, isn’t all that deep, proportionally speaking. Damn kid’s hung like a porn star, prompting a spike of envy that’s purely fraternal and he’s not gonna look too hard at why that really kinda turns him on.

His eyes water, jaws stretch, and son of a bitch he’s gonna suck at this (bad pun be damned). Then again he thinks back and can’t remember ever getting a _bad_ blowjob. So. Messy it is. He lets himself drool down the length of Sam’s prick and curls a hand around the base. It’s not so tough to keep his lips pressed against his index finger and rock up and down. He gets a little carried away and chokes himself some when he takes too much.

His eyes drift up to his brother’s face and there’s that look again, the one that squeezes something in his chest and it’s not the dick in his mouth that makes it hard to breathe.

“You’ve done this before,” Sam whispers.

He shakes his head, back teeth bumping against the head of his brother’s cock and it earns him a hiss. He pulls off with an obscene slurp and grins. “Nope. Just a natural.”

Sam chuckles, gives him an eye roll. “Right. ’Cause you’re Dean Winchester, Sex God.”

“Goddamn right,” he nods. “Oughta get that on a business card.”

At Sam’s fake-exasperated “You’re unbelievable,” something snaps inside him, lets loose like a popped balloon.

’Cause it hits him, what he’s been freaking out over. Not morals or boundaries or… whatever. Shit, what does he know from morals anyway? What do _they_ know from boundaries?

He didn’t wanna risk what they are, like fucking Sam would turn his brother the rest of the way into a girl. No more prank wars or wisecracks or rock-paper-scissors (which, he only loses all the time ’cause that fucker cheats). But here they are, naked and sweaty and his hand’s wrapped around Sam’s dick and he’s still getting attitude. They’ll be fine. Well. As fine as they’ve ever been, he figures.

With a quirk of his lips he retorts, “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Sammy” and makes to get his brother off with his hand.

’Cause, okay, so, he’s had no practice sucking cock but he damn sure knows how to jerk one. And the angle is weird and the size unfamiliar but there’s also the way Sam wiggles and pants and the same way he knows exactly where his brother is in a crowded bar when they’re hustling pool he knows exactly how to touch Sam. Instinct.

And as much as a part of him wants to close his eyes and let this whole wet-dream-come-true wash over him, a bigger part can’t tear himself away from Sammy’s face. Alternating between slack jaw and gritted teeth, between deep-chested animal sounds and desperate whimpers. Takes him no time to find all Sammy’s sweet spots, where and when to squeeze, slide, twist. He picks up the pace and Sam’s breathing goes shallow, dick in his hand grows impossibly harder, and un-fucking-fairly thicker.

“Come on, Sammy,” he finds himself whispering, draped across his brother’s body, face just far enough away that he can make out, memorize, every detail. “Let it go,” he breathes. “I gotcha.”

For half a second Sam’s eyes go wide, lock onto his, and then they roll back, slam shut and Sam’s coming. Dean’s giddy with it, trembling muscles underneath him, hot slick soaking his hand and smearing his hip. Half dazed, he drops back down to wrap his lips around his brother’s cock, sucking right behind the ridge and tasting, swallowing, drinking down the last bursts.

And there he stays, fucking nursing Sam through the aftershocks and the taste is terrible, bitter and salty and not like a chick at all but it’s incredible. And finally Sam’s pawing his head, grunting displeasure, and with all the willpower he can muster he lets go. Looks up at his brother and licks his lips, lifts an eyebrow. Finishes this thing the way he started it.

He doesn’t mean to laugh, doesn’t know where it comes from. But there it is, half hysterical and half something he wouldn’t dare put a name to.

“Something funny, fucker?” Sam looks like he’s going for sulky but it doesn’t stick. He can see it the moment something breaks in Sam too, and he must be really high on this because the next thing he knows they’re face to face, on their sides, and Sam’s got a leg around his waist and a hand around his dick and his brother’s hips are driving the handjob. Sam thrusts against him while he thrusts between his brother’s fingers and he hears himself babbling.

“God, Sammy, yes, so damn good, can’t wait to fuck you, gonna kill me, fucking perfect, fucking _Jesus_ – ”

**

Sam’s smiling at him. That’s the first thing he knows. Lying there, facing him, the big ox’s hands are folded under one cheek like one of those silly porcelain dolls old ladies like, and, yeah.

He’s under the covers. Cleaned up (but still naked). And pink-tinted light snakes its way between the curtains, so… morning.

Sam’s smile takes a mocking turn as his eyes flutter open. “Dude. You totally passed out.”

“Oh, Sammy.” Somehow he doesn’t miss a beat. “ _Men_ fall asleep after they come, didn’t anybody tell you? Scientific fact.”

Sam throws back an eye-roll and tolerant sigh, but the grin underneath is unmistakable. Pushes up onto one elbow and hauls him in with the other arm. “And girls like to cuddle, right?”

“Exactly.” He slings a leg over his brother’s hips and stretches up to kiss him. Sam lets out this soft, satisfied sound that makes his head swim.

“We’re okay, yeah?” Sam asks, never pulling his face away.

“As long as you stick to Big Family Rule Number One.”

Sam does draw back then, brows knitted together into an arch that he just wants to lick.

“Driver picks the music?”

“Well yeah, that too, but – ”

“No chick flick moments.”

“And obviously that but I meant – ”

“We do what we do and shut up about it,” they say together as Sam catches on.

His brother starts to laugh. Flops back on the bed and really lets loose with it. Before he knows it he’s joining in, and the bed shakes like they’ve fed the Magic Fingers.

Except, it's a million times better.

**Author's Note:**

> Baby's first porn fic. Comments welcome. I can take it. :)
> 
> Oh, and "The Outlaw Torn" is a track from Metallica's S&M.


End file.
